JASMINE. 
123 
THE JASMINE. 
MOORE. 
’Twas midnight — through the lattice wreathed 
With woodbine, many a perfume breathed 
From plants that wake when others sleep ; 
From timid Jasmine buds that keep 
Their odor to themselves all day; 
But when the sunlight dies away, 
Let the delicious secret out 
To every breeze that roams about. 
TO THE JESSAMINE. 
MISS JANE TAYLOR. 
Sweet jessamine, long may thy elegant flower 
Breathe fragrance and solace for me : 
And long thy green sprigs overshadow the bower 
Devoted to friendship and thee. 
The eye that was dazzled where lilies and roses 
Their brilliant assemblage displayed, 
With grateful delight on thy verdure reposes, 
A tranquil and delicate shade. 
But ah ! what dejection that foliage expresses 
Which pensively droops on her breast ! 
The dew of the evening has laden her tresses, 
And stands like a tear on her crest. 
